foreskin tips

“How are ya dare?” He asks thick as he raises his beer.
“I’m good, and you?” Up until now it’s polite.
“Fine. Fine.” He shakes his head. He has a thick scar beneath his lips.
“You’re Irish, huh?” I ask while trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“Das right.”
“So you’ve got foreskin then, huh?”
“Goodness gracious, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Where’d a gerl like you get a mouth like dat?” He has put his beer down and now sucks foam off his cleanly shaven lip, as if he’s savoring food from a moustache.
“Oh so I’m right den huh pops?” I do my best to mimic his accent.
“Who da hell you callin’ pops. And I’ll ave you know, you don’t sound like an Irish. Stick to that redhead chicky voice of yers.”
“So, you’re uncircumsized then huh?”
“I’m natural. Das what I am, dearie.” He shakes his head affirmative, as if he’s convincing himself of something.
“Yeah, girls don’t really know what to do with all that excess. It gets in the way ya know.”
“Jesus, gerl, you know I could show ya. ” Now he’s looking at me.
“I’m not a daft cow ya know. I’m just tellin’ ya.” I’m back to mimicking; accents are too contagious. “I mean, if we’re jerkin’ ya off, do we push it all down or bring it along fer the ride? Nevermind when we go down on ya. That’s just bloody hell.” My accent has turned from Irish to British.
“Some mouth on you. I’ve got the mind to take a bar of soap on ya.”
“You know, you’re right. I think I do smell.”

I hurry off to the ladies room to smell my pits. I know he wasn’t insinuating that I smelled. (Whenever someone mentions washing a mouth out with soap, I think The Christmas Story and poor Ralphy sitting with Ivory soap as a tongue.) My pits were powder fresh. But something was wrong; it was my shoulder. Someone smelly must have leaned against me and spilled their onion drippings. I was not a roast. Thankfully, I’m always armed with an atomizer of Creed’s Fleur de The Rose Bulgarie (my signature scent). Though, maybe my nose was playing tricks. I needed backup.

Upon returning from the bathroom, I ask the Irishman to smell me.
“What kinda crazy gotten inta ya gerl.”
“Oh come on smell my shoulder; I’m fcuking jumpy aren’t I?”
“Jumpy?”
“Yeah, jumpy. That's right.”
He cautiously leans in for a sniff. “Yeah, gerl you’re somethin’ ripe.”
“Fuck, I knew it.” I spray the perfume on my shoulder.
“For fcuk’s sake gerl, you’re gettin’ it in me pint.” His hand flutters then rests atop his Guinness glass.
“Well some friend you are, not telling me I stink.”
“Doesn’t bother me ya know. I’ve got thick skin, remember?”
Touché.